


second star from the right (straight on 'til morning)

by writing_addict



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: (somewhat but it's for plot reasons i.e. conflicted style), Aftermath of Violence, Alkahestry, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banishment, Blind Character, Edward Elric Is A Little Shit, Edward Elric Swears, Families of Choice, Gen, How is that not a tag, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Out of Character, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protective Riza Hawkeye, Protective Roy Mustang, Xing, author binged atla and fmab and here we are, but used for evil, it's my first attempt writing a blind/semi-sightless character so please be gentle, ling hasn't hit his growth spurt that makes him look 18 yet, ling yao needs a hug, or severely visually impaired, so he's teeny tiny, so ling is about 11.5, takes place when ed is like 12, the emperor of xing fucking SUCKS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addict/pseuds/writing_addict
Summary: He expects something other than lost, frightened brown eyes flicking over him for a moment, or tiny bronze fingers curling into metal. He expects something other than thin, trembling shoulders wrapped loosely in torn, stained fabric or hollow cheeks. He expects something other than tears sliding down that tiny face and matted dark hair tossed in torn, snarled little curls, expects something other than soft little whimpers and a hoarse, pitiful cry of fright.He expects something,anythingother than a tiny, terrifiedchild.Or:Roy Mustang ventures into the vents to exterminate a mouse. Instead he finds a small, frightened, very hurt child--a child banished from his home and forced to search for the very thing he's helping Edward Elric look for if he wants even a chance at returning. Instead, he finds himself with the sudden urge to cause adiplomatic incidentwith the emperor of Xing, and very little desire to let the desperate, lonely kid return somewhere that's only brought him pain and fear.Instead, he finds himself adopting (another, some part of him mutters) the child, and can't bring himself to mind at all.
Relationships: Edward Elric & Ling Yao, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Lan Fan & Ling Yao, Riza Hawkeye & Ling Yao, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang & Ling Yao
Comments: 114
Kudos: 204





	1. sleepwalking

**Author's Note:**

> so...y'all remember how much i've been ranting about ling needing role models (not that roy and riza are necessarily Good Role Models, given...literally everything they've done) and adults to rely on who aren't looking to him to eventually rule their nation? so...i wrote that, but with bby ling. like, very bby ling. like, eleven-year-old-scared-to-death-oh-god-everything-is-terrifying ling.
> 
> but BASICALLY: i was watching atla and this au hit me like a truck after i watched literally all of zuko's arc. ling angers his father, the emperor, who has a court alkahestrist mess with his vision, and then banishes him until he can find the philosopher's stone and return as the crown prince out of all 50 of his siblings--but he isn't allowed to have anyone help him. lan fan and fu are forced to sit by as he's thrown to the great desert, with no idea whether he's dead or alive. he makes it to east city in amestris by sheer luck and happenstance, and he knows the military must know something about the stone, so where does he go? the nearest military base, where roy mustang's team happens to operate. unfortunately, adrenaline and fear will only push a kid so far before they collapse, and ling is at his limit when he manages to crawl into the ventilation system.
> 
> and that's the rundown! dw, lan fan and fu will absolutely feature soon, but the first bits will probably be a. the team adjusting to the new child in their midst, and b. ling adjusting to a very different country (and not-quite-family) than the one he grew up with. lots of fluff, lots of tears, lots of fun for me! also, this is my first time writing a character with a severe visual impairment; i've done some research and will continue to as the story moves on, but rest assured that his blindness is not the source of the angst, nor will this be a story about how dramatic and horrible the impairment is. this is primarily a story about a kid who needs a safe place finding one, not about what a "tragedy" it is to be sightless. any angst connected to the impairment will likely be due to the fact that it's ling's father who was the ultimate cause, not because he's blind. if that doesn't come across or if i'm writing blindness/visual impairment poorly, please let me know so i can do better. thank you all for being so patient <3

There's been a scratching sound coming from the ventilation shaft above his office for several weeks now, and it's getting on Roy's _last_ nerve. If it was some sort of maintenance issue, he's sure the command would be on top of it immediately--security risks and all that--but honestly, it just sounds like a rat got into the vents. He's tempted to call an exterminator or something, but he'd have to clear that with the higher-ups, and he just doesn't have the energy to deal with them _and_ with Fullmetal.

Besides, one snap and he's pretty sure the rat problem will go up in smoke. _Ha_. He very pointedly does not laugh at his own little joke, though, because if he gets caught he’s pretty sure Havoc and Fullmetal will never let him live it down. Riza won’t, either, but she’ll at least pretend to be sympathetic about it. Hopefully. They’d better be damn grateful after he gets rid of this…whatever-it-is crawling around in the vents, though, because he’s heard them complaining about it. A day of no paperwork sounds like a fair payment (with the added bonus of slowing down the Fuhrer’s operations in his area under the guise of being a lazy worker. That, and he genuinely loathes the forms and things he’s always made to sign). Or just a day of not being made fun of.

Eh. He can handle it. Not being called a “bastard” by that frustratingly endearing little brat just seems too weird to think of, though he puts up his usual token protests. Less of Havoc’s teasing would be appreciated, but given how mutual it is, that’d hardly be fair. He’ll just ask Riza to be a little more lenient on the paperwork.

Well, maybe. He doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of her gun again, not so early in the morning. Perhaps he’ll ask when the mouse is dead—so it looks like he was actually somewhat productive. Or something.

 _Or something_ is probably the most accurate descriptor in this case, he reflects wryly as he drags a chair (not the one with wheels, even he’s not stupid enough to try and stand on one of those while unscrewing something) under the vent and hops up on is, screwdriver in hand. But hey, it counts as some form of productivity, right? Definitely. He’s…ridding himself of a distraction, that’s all! Which is _excellent_ for productivity. Hell, he might even finish that stack of paperwork or something.

He unscrews the vent cover, grimacing at the blast of cold air that sweeps over him, before shuddering. _Ugh. Great, now I have to figure out how to actually get in there and track down the mouse. Or rat. Or whatever it is._ “Maybe this was a bad idea,” he muses, before pushing himself up onto the arm of the chair and standing on his toes. He can only imagine the amount of short jokes Ed would throw at him if he saw him standing like this, but—well, the ceilings were _high,_ damnit.

It’s only really a bad idea if he falls, he decides, before managing to tug the cover off the vent with a noise of triumph. He sets it down carefully as the soft scuffling noise suddenly goes quiet, trying to make as little noise as possible so he can get a clear shot at the vermin. _Come on…_ He manages to wedge himself into the vent, hauling himself up enough to squint against the rush of cold air filtering through the air conditioning system, before peering into the shadows. _Alright, where are you—_

He expects to see a pair of beady little eyes, or tiny paws. He expects a tail or the squeaking of a little creature as it flees back into the shadows. He expects something decidedly not human, certainly not anywhere close to it.

He expects something other than lost, frightened brown eyes flicking over him for a moment, or tiny bronze fingers curling into metal. He expects something other than thin, trembling shoulders wrapped loosely in torn, stained fabric or hollow cheeks. He expects something other than tears sliding down that tiny face and matted dark hair tossed in torn, snarled little curls, expects something other than soft little whimpers and a hoarse, pitiful cry of fright.

He expects something, _anything_ other than a tiny, terrified _child_ curled up in the vent, looking infinitely smaller and more scared with every ragged sob that pulls out of his chest. But that’s what he gets, and Roy can’t help but _freeze_ as the kid covers his head with a whimper, shivering violently.

There’s a moment of silence, stillness, of absolute _shock_ as Roy stares at the kid and the kid stares back (maybe—his focus is off, eyes looking everywhere but at him from what he can tell through the darkness and the matted bangs flopped over his face). _He’s so small,_ he thinks, eyes wide—small, and frail, and shaking and the painful catch in his throat with every sob means he’s probably _sick_ and—

Yeah, This isn’t good.

There’s a rustle, and he tries not to curse as the kid starts to scoot back, as if he could vanish into the shadows. Roy doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, just that Hughes would kill him if he left this clearly-terrified child here to suffer. Sure, it’s a security risk and all that, sure, the kid is definitely _not supposed to be there,_ but…

But he can’t be any older than Ed. And if Ed was stuck somewhere like this, hurt and sick and afraid, Roy would want someone to help him. As annoying as his subordinate can be, he’s one of Roy’s, and Roy looks out for his own as best he can.

And this kid clearly has no one to do that for him, at least not right now, so…so Roy can at least get him out of there and into a warm blanket or something. Hell, he can even make him some tea or get him a granola bar or whatever. He just can’t—can’t leave him there.

 _You’ve been the reason children died before,_ an uncharitable voice sneers. _What’s different about this one?_

He pushes it down, because there _is_ no difference. There _is_ no way he can atone. But he can help this one, even if it means walking over so many graves he caused.

“Hey,” he starts, and winces as a full-body flinch rocks violently through the kid, a sob wracking his body as he curls up into an even tinier ball. “Oh—kiddo, it’s alright,” he soothes, trying not to make a face at the nickname, to channel Hughes as best he can. “You look really, really cold in there. Do you want to come out and get a blanket or something?”

Those trembling fingers tighten in long, dark hair, and then _tug,_ and Roy grimaces slightly as the kid whimpers wordlessly at him. He opens his mouth to try again, to offer another comfort before he does something stupid and tries to slide back into the vents, before going still at the small, hoarse voice that reaches him mere moments later.

“N-no more _hurt,”_ the child begs— _begs,_ shaking so much that Roy can hear his teeth chattering. “No— _n-no_.” He sucks in an audible, gasping breath, before shaking his head frantically, black hair falling over his face. “Go _‘way!”_

A dull roaring fills Roy’s ears, red flashing at his peripheral as a burning _rage_ flashes wildly in his chest. This isn’t just a lost child, or some particularly clever runaway finding shelter in a military building. This kid—this kid has been _hurt_ until his response to someone offering him help is assuming that he’s in danger. That it’s a lie, that he’s going to suffer for it, that he’s going to be punished. The anger stings, clawing at his throat and buzzing to get out like a wasp caught under a glass, but he ignores it. As angry as he is, he has to get this kid out of here before someone less forgiving finds him.

 _The military is no place for a child,_ that voice sneers again, _but you didn’t much care when it was Fullmetal, was it?_

He ignores it yet again—he’s sure he’s become Fullmetal’s monster too, somewhere along the way, and it’s no less than he deserves for treating him like that (but he’s here now, and no matter how much he regrets it, Roy still _uses_ his genius, because it was a power play, always is—and he doesn’t think about how he never sends him on the deadliest missions, how he keeps him from the front lines, how most of his missions are searching for leads and how Roy reassigns the others again and again until they will never haunt his subordinate, never make him a murderer)—but he isn’t _this child’s_ monster, and Roy—

Roy knows, bone-deep, that he can help him somehow. That he can keep this kid safe, at least until they figure out where he’s supposed to go and how to help him. He doesn’t need what Fullmetal did, doesn’t need a push to spark a fire _(but did he, did he, what if you’d pushed him too far)_ —his fire is already _out._

“Oh, kiddo,” he says softly, and the nickname doesn’t feel as unnatural the second time around. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. Can you come forward a little bit so I can get you out of here? You look like you could use a warm drink and a good rest.” And possibly a trip to the hospital, given how malnourished he looks. He can’t be doing very well if he looks that ill. _Of course he’s not doing well,_ he berates himself a moment later, _he’s stuck in a freezing tube of metal and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in a month._

There’s another sniffle, and Roy braces himself for another refusal, to climb down and get Hawkeye before the kid can scramble away—before releasing a soft sigh when he scoots forward a tiny bit. “That’s it,” he encourages softly, and the child inches forward a bit more. “You’re doing great, buddy.” A trembling hand touches his, and he curls his fingers around those small ones. They’re quivering and unsteady and Roy can _feel_ the fear in the little shudders as he gently tugs him forward, somehow managing to keep his balance as he tugs him out of the vent and into his arms.

He steps down from the chair, the vent cover lying forgotten, and carefully places him down on the couch. The soft whimpers don’t stop the entire time, and it makes something in his chest _hurt_ as he sits him down. “There we go,” he praises, sitting down next to him. “You did awesome, kid. Can I give you that blanket I promised now?”

The kid looks up at him—or, well, _sort of_ seems to. His eyes skate loosely over him, unsteady and…unseeing. Not quite—it’s clear that he registers Roy’s presence on some level, but not very _clearly._ Almost as if his sight is impaired in some way—

And then Roy sees the tiny marks of a transmutation around his eyes, those little glitch-like particles that so often point to the making and unmaking of something, of someone, and his chest _hurts._

 _Someone did that to you._ And maybe, _maybe,_ if the boy in front of him was an adult or a soldier, it wouldn’t have made that thing in his chest roar in rage and frustration, but this? This is a _child,_ and someone had hurt him with alchemy. Had presumably caused this damage with it, but he can’t be sure until he gets this kid to a doctor, which he was planning on doing regardless. He’s dehydrated and malnourished enough that Roy’s pretty sure a few bottles of water and a bowl of soup won’t be enough.

The rage in his chest doesn’t change—but it puts his panic at the sound of Roy’s voice into a whole new context. Of course he’d been scared; he was in the dark 24/7 and shut in a small, cold space, only to hear someone new burst into that tiny little space he’d thought he was somewhat safe in. And if he’d been hurt before, of course he’d see that as a threat. Of course he’d be terrified. Roy doesn’t even know how he got in there in the first place, sight or no sight, but after he had, he’d probably been all but stuck until he could figure out how to navigate—and Roy had come in before that happened.

“Blanket?” the kid repeats softly, his voice small and unsteady, and Roy snaps back into focus as a small hand winds hesitantly into his jacket. There’s a slight accent to the words that Roy can’t quite place, but he doesn’t focus on it. “B-blanket.” There’s a tug on his sleeve, before the kid adds, “Please?” in a voice so small and hopeful and yet _afraid_ that he can barely stand it.

“Sure thing, buddy,” he murmurs, grabbing the throw blanket off the couch and winding it loosely around the kid. He checks him over quickly as he does—no visible injuries, but there’s a feverish flush to his face and his palms are cold and clammy. _Probably gonna have to take you to the hospital…and get you some new clothes._ His are stained and torn and tattered, and distinctly not Amestrian— _Xingese,_ he realizes, and the accent clicks into place as well. So a small, hurt Xingese child—pre-teen? He doesn’t really know how old he is, but he can’t be older than Ed (at least, he hopes not, because that’ll be even more depressing)—ended up stuck in his vents somehow, and now he’s on the green couch Ed pretends to hate wrapped up in a blanket twice his size.

Surprisingly, it’s not the strangest morning he’s ever had. “Better, kid?”

Those black-brown eyes slip shut, before opening again slowly, and he gets a slight nod in response. It’s followed by a yawn, before his eyes slip shut again. “Th…thank y-you,” he whispers, and Roy watches small hands pull the blanket tighter. There’s a little flash of scar tissue on the palms, bigger and more jagged than he’d expect from just childhood roughhousing, and that anger burns a little hotter in his chest even as he moves a hand to where the kid can feel it. He flinches a little, but far less than before, and Roy lets him track the movement as he wraps his hand around it and pulls it up to pat his head gently. “S…sir?”

Roy chuckles quietly despite himself, flipping some of the blanket up and over the kid’s head. He gets a little squeak, before the boy hunkers down in the folds of soft fabric. “Roy. Roy Mustang. What’s your name, kiddo?”

Black eyes blink slowly again, before drifting shut again. “M’Ling,” he mumbles. “Can…c-can I sleep, now?”

Roy’s heart twists in an entirely unfamiliar ( _liar, liar, liar)_ way, going strangely soft and gooey. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, sure you can. Just—” He blinks as the kid curls up immediately, nestling against his side. _Oh. Well—oh._

 _Shit,_ he realizes after a moment, and sighs. _So much for being productive._

…Hawkeye is going to _kill him._


	2. foreverglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy is quickly coming to terms with the fact that he now has a small child--and as soon as Riza meets him, she finds herself similarly wrapped around Ling's little finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might snap and name all the chapter titles after lindsey stirling songs bc her music slaps. anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this chapter! we've got some mama hawk in there now ;) also AAAAH GUESS WHO'S IN COLLEGE!!!! i'm so excited, even if i've already got lots of work haha. but don't worry, i'm going to keep writing and updating!

Roy doesn’t have it in him to move after that—not with the kid ( _Ling, his name is Ling)_ curled up small and shy against his side, tucked against him like he’s scared of letting go. He shifts _once,_ intent on grabbing a form off the desk, and the kid whimpers in his sleep and clings to him like he thinks he’s about to disappear. After that, well, he just…doesn’t bother moving, because Ling is _freezing,_ still shivering even in his sleep, and Roy knows he’s a damn space heater. So…well, if he can warm the kid up a little bit, then he’ll happily stay here and stare at the wall a little bit.

That resolve doesn’t last very long, though—not through any fault of Roy’s own, but because the door creaks open, and Ling _immediately_ jolts awake, head whipping around in a panic. He grimaces as thick black hair smacks him across the face, before tugging the kid into his lap as he lets out a wordless cry of distress and promptly buries his face in his neck. He can feel him trembling even _more,_ hear his teeth chattering with the force of his shaking, and his heart cracks a little more at the seams even as he sets a gentle hand on the top of his head. “It’s alright,” he soothes softly. “You’re safe, kiddo.” He doesn’t know how he knows that Ling feels _unsafe,_ that he thinks he’s going to be hurt, but—

Fuck. _Fuck_. He really is attached to this kid and it’s been all of fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty—an hour? He’s lost track of time since he managed to get the poor thing out of the cold, but for the first time in a long while he’s not counting the minutes off the clock or repeating the words on forms to himself just to get a little further through the day—doesn’t even care that he’s not _doing_ anything, just that he’s got Ling curled him next to him. Just that he’s keeping him…well, _safe._

It’s selfish, to feel this good about protecting someone after all the damage, all the pain and grief he’s caused, but he can’t let go of it—of him—just yet. Maybe it makes him a worse monster than before, but the kid is alive, and he trusts him (somewhat) and Roy just...he can keep him safe for a little bit. Find a place for him. Somewhere safe, where he won’t ever end up suffering pain like this ever again. He can’t send him into the system (he knows firsthand how shitty it is, having bounced around through foster homes until Aunt Chris tracked him down), and even if he considered it, Ling is likely to end up thrown right to the border. A strange kid in a military base with a Xingese name and marks of alchemy damage around his eyes? They’ll chew him up and spit him out, and he’ll end up worse than before.

He does need a doctor, though—hell, Roy doesn’t know how much immediate danger the kid is (he’s still trembling, even though he’s wrapped up in the blanket and Roy’s shrugged off his jacket to drape it over him, and he doesn’t know whether it’s from fear or cold at this point). He could be sick, or hurt somewhere Roy can’t see, and he doesn’t expect him to start spilling his guts to him just because he gave him a blanket. He can’t take him to a military hospital though—which, well, most of the hospitals in the area are military-funded. There’s one on the other side of the city isn’t, but he knows they’re also underfunded, which means Ling might not get the care he needs right now.

_Joys of living in a military dictatorship, I guess._

“Sir, what’s going on?”

He winces, jerking himself out of his thoughts and back to the present—to the shivering kid nestled in his arms and the puzzled amber eyes of his lieutenant as she takes in…everything. The unscrewed vent cover, the chair positioned under the gap, the paperwork abandoned on his desk, and Ling curled up against his chest and whimpering audibly. “We had a stowaway,” he says after a moment, figuring that’s the best way to describe the phenomenon of a small child hiding in the vents above his office. “I just offered him some help, that’s all.”

Ling presses his face into his shoulder again, and his hand comes up to stroke at that tangled mass of dark hair again. He angles his head toward Riza as she stares down at them, her expression unreadable—to anyone else. But he can see the way her jaw tightens, the flash of rage in those brown eyes, the way her trigger finger twitches. Her anger isn’t directed at Ling, he knows, but she’s reached the same conclusion he has. Someone hurt this kid until all he knows is fear, and somehow he’s ended up under their wing.

And hopefully, if everything goes well, he’ll stay there—stay _here,_ where it’s safe. Because wherever he came from clearly _isn’t safe._ Not for him, anyway, if the scars on his arm and the transmutation marks around his eyes are any indication (and they are, one that points to something that makes Roy want to go for his gloves and burn down whoever caused them—whoever hurt this child that he barely even knows. _Soft-hearted bastard)._

That rage flickers in his chest, mirrored in Riza’s eyes for a moment—before she softens visibly, moving a few paces closer. “Hello, darling,” she greets softly, and he feels Ling flinch against his chest with a whimper. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad right now. Is there anything the colonel and I can do to help?”

Ling shifts slightly at that, head tilting toward the sound of her voice. Silence, for a moment, before—“Help?” he repeats in a small, shaky voice, hands knotting tightly in his shirt as he tilts his head up at Roy. “W-wha’s—help?” Timidly, he turns his head toward Riza, and Roy winces inwardly at the flash of anger he sees dance across her face. _She recognized the transmutation marks, huh._

“Yes, little one. How can we help?” She moves a step closer, and Ling doesn’t flinch this time, even though Roy sees him chew his lower lip anxiously. Riza kneels down, solemn amber eyes staring up into nearly sightless, ever-dazed hickory; it takes a moment for it the _why_ to click, but Roy can’t help feeling a swell of affection for his lieutenant. _She’s lower than him—less of a threat._ Or, at least, he _hopes_ the kid will see it that way. “Do you want another blanket?” she suggests softly when he doesn’t respond, quivering body curled close to Roy’s. “I have a very nice one that I bring when it gets very cold.”

Ling worries at his lip a moment longer, before tipping his head up toward Roy, gaze seemingly fixed somewhere above his forehead. He opens his mouth, before shutting it again, dark eyes wide and frightened. “Hung’y,” he whispers after a moment, and then, a little frantically— _“S-sorry!”_ He buries his face in his chest, and something in Roy twists vicious as another shudder wracks the child’s already frail body. He’s scared. The kid is scared, and ashamed, as if—

As if it’s something to _apologize_ for. As if his hunger after—after whatever he’s been through that’s left him so emaciated (like he’s made of nothing but air and bone, like some fae creature in those stories Aunt Chris and his sisters used to tell him) is a sign of weakness and not a natural human reaction. As if he’s somehow _failing_ for needing to eat like any other person.

 _Who did this to you?_ he thinks, not for the first time—but that fire in his chest roars again, louder and brighter and angrier, and he finds himself wrapping his arms tightly around the kid, cradling him as best he can. “You have absolutely _nothing_ to apologize for,” he tells him firmly, praying his voice doesn’t shake with the force of that fury in his chest, so alien and yet familiar. “If you’re hungry, buddy, we’ll get you something to eat, okay? You don’t ever have to worry about that here.” He doesn’t know whether the kid was starved—the fact that he can count his ribs under the tattered shirt says _yes—_ or if it’s just a product of him just being turned loose upon the world, but the kid clearly thinks he’s going to be punished for wanting something to eat and that just… _hurts._

Tiny fingers wind tightly into his shirt, and Roy doesn’t bother loosening his grip, gently rocking him in his arms as Ling manages to make himself even smaller somehow. Riza rubs his back with a gentle hand, eyes soft and worried as he hiccups and sniffles audibly. “Would you like some soup, little one?” she suggests softly, and Roy remembers the thermos she always brings to the office, just in case they can’t order out. “I bet it would be nice and warm in your belly.”

Ling lets out a miserable little noise. Roy isn’t quite sure whether it’s a yes or a no—he doesn’t want to push the kid, but he really does need to eat (hell, he’ll spoon-feed the damn soup to him if that’s what it takes) and he hopes the “permission” is enough to at least temporarily soothe his worries. “Kiddo,” he starts, before blinking in surprise as Ling bobs his head jerkily—unsteadily, like he’s scared the offer will go away if he doesn’t take it. “Alright, sweetheart, can you turn a little bit so Riza can give you the soup?”

Ling snuffles, a soft, childish sound that he swears he’s heard Elicia make before when she’s feeling fussy, before peeking out toward Riza again. She smiles softly at him, the thermos already in her hand—Roy has no idea how she even does that—before carefully setting it in his lap, guiding his hands down to wrap around it and setting the small metal spoon on his leg. “There you go, darling.”

Ling’s hands curl unsteadily around the thermos, a gusty little sigh escaping him as he touches it—probably because it’s warm, or so Roy hopes. He tries not to hover too much as scarred hands fumble for the lid, trying to twist the cap the wrong way before whining in frustration and managing to spin it off the other direction—blind doesn’t mean helpless, he _knows_ that, but the kid is so damn shaky and anxious that he wants to do whatever it takes to make him feel safe. Even if that’s being a little overprotective.

“Need any help, kiddo?” he asks softly, watching small hands navigate their way over to the spoon, before tapping it hesitantly against the rim of the thermos. _Ah…is he trying to figure out where it is?_ He tilts his head down at him, unable to curb a fond smile. _Smart kid._ He watches for a moment as he brings a spoonful of chicken noodle up to his mouth, breathing out a quiet sigh of relief as hickory-brown eyes go round. _Oh, good. He likes—whoa!_ He jolts a little in surprise as Ling grabs for the thermos, drinking out of it with a sort of desperation that makes something in his chest twist painfully “Sweetheart,” he chastises gently, wrapping his hands around small, scar-covered ones. “I know you’re hungry, but you gotta take your time or you’re gonna get sick.”

He whines wordlessly in response, taking another gulp of soup before reluctantly settling it back in his lap, hunched around it protectively. Riza reaches out and squeezes his hand gently, her movements steady and careful. “Little one,” she says, her voice soft and soothing, like she’s trying to coax a cornered animal out. “It’s alright. We’re not going to take it away if you eat a little slower. Just do the best you can, alright, darling?”

Ling blinks slowly, before hesitantly lifting the thermos up for another sip. When no one reaches out to grab it from him, he takes another, moving a little more slowly, relaxing a tiny bit in Roy’s lap. He counts it as a small success as the kid slowly drinks the contents of the thermos, his shivering slowing as he eats. “There you go, buddy,” he encourages, ruffling his hair gently. Ling lets out that quiet snuffling sound again, before holding the thermos out to Riza—or, well, in her general direction—with trembling hands.

She shakes her head, gently pushing it back toward him. “No, little love, it’s okay,” she soothes. “That’s all for you. Just eat as much as you feel like right now, and then when you’re full you can go back to napping, alright?”

Ling peers down at the thermos, thumb rubbing a slow circle along the rim of it, before he shakes his head and holds it out again. “Done,” he whispers. “F-feel—bad.”

On one hand, Roy’s glad the kid is admitting to feeling ill—but on the other, it _hurts,_ hearing that. “Bad how, kiddo?” he presses quietly. “Is it scary, eating more, or do you feel sick?”

Ling’s face scrunches up miserably, before he mumbles, “S-sick.” He shudders, before hiccupping, the sound soft and painful and achingly vulnerable. “Cold. _H-hurts.”_ A hand paws at his chest, pressing it to his stomach and then curling around the collar of his shirt. “Hurts,” he repeats, the words rasping out of his throat like they’re physically painful to say—hell, they probably are.

Roy’s heart twists, and he carefully frees the thermos from his hands as Riza moves to sit beside him. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Ling,” he murmurs, wincing at the mournful, tear-filled little keening sound the kid lets out. “Riza and I…we’d like to take you to see some doctors, if that’s alright. So you can feel better.” The words are embarrassingly oversimplified and it feels ridiculously cheesy, but—

Ling twists around in his arms, before turning his head up toward them. “Better?” he echoes, his voice unbearably small and uncertain. “F-feel better?”

He sounds so—so incredulous and uncertain that the _anger_ in Roy’s chest flares bright and overwhelming, nearly blinding him with the force of it. He doesn’t show even a flicker of it, though, instead smiling sadly down at him. “Yeah, kiddo. Feel better.”

“We’ll stay with you the whole time, if you’d like us to,” Riza adds softly, and Roy knows she’s as gone on this kid as he is, as attached as he hoped he wouldn’t get. “And then we can bring you somewhere safer.” A light nudge to his shoulder reminds him that they’ll have to figure out where the hell that _is,_ but he doesn’t much care. He has a guest room, and so does Riza—hell, he could even send the kid to Aunt Chris for a little bit. He’s not sure Ling would take well to that, though. “Is that alright with you, little one?”

The child turns sightless eyes toward her, before nodding hesitantly. Something like relief bursts through Roy’s chest—

Before the door flies open with an almighty _crash,_ the now-familiar sound of a boot impacting rich wood followed by an even-more familiar shout of, “Yo, bastard, I’ve got my report!” A figure in red and gold stomps into view, a suitcase clutched in one gloved hand as the other triumphantly waves a crumpled, nearly illegible sheaf of paper like a prize.

And Ling—

Ling _wails_ at the loud noise, bursting into tears and shooting back under the blanket so quickly that Roy barely sees him move. He bundles him into his arms quickly, wincing as that tiny face immediately tucks itself into his shoulder again, before arching an eyebrow up at one very confused Edward Elric. “Good morning, Fullmetal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! next chapter we'll have some very confused ed, very smol ling, and a trip to the doctor's office ft. everyone's favorite parental duo. i hope you guys enjoyed it! see you next chapter <3 <3 <3


	3. crystallize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed meets Ling, and confronts something in himself that he didn't know existed--or didn't want to know existed. Doesn't mean he's going to acknowledge it, though. Nope. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ask and ye shall receive: more smol ling, some ed being a big brother, some royai as parents. its coming, y'all

There's a—

There's a _kid_ on his superior's lap.

Ed can only stare as he takes in the office—the sounds of quiet, panicked crying after a wail split the air when he kicked the door open as usual, the vent above the bastard's desk left open with the cover tossed aside on an office chair, Mustang himself seated on the green couch with a trembling bundle on his lap. He sees bronze fingers crisscrossed with pale scars, twisted and knotted up on hands so small he could crush them without even trying, and matted dark hair snarled in a way that makes him itch to grab a brush and tame it.

He sees _Mustang_ , the bastard who yanked him out of a wheelchair and yelled at him to _keep fighting_ ( _you needed the push_ , some part of him points out, and the rest hisses _shut up, shut up),_ gently rocking the bundle of blanket and child and murmuring soothingly to it. Mustang, who insists he's terrible with kids, that he wants nothing to do with them, that Lt. Colonel Hughes' daughter is the sole exception. Mustang, who's rubbing the bundle's back and saying _it's okay, kiddo, you're okay, it's just Ed_.

"What the fuck," he says, because it's so alien to him that there's nothing else to say (except for the part of him that's—jealous, of all things, that wants maybe not _that_ , but to be told it's okay and that he's safe even if he never is). And again, a little louder— "What the _fuck_."

"Fullmetal," Mustang chides, stroking the dark mess of hair peeking up from the top of the blanket. "There's no need to scare him."

"Scare _who_?"

Mustang bends his head low to murmur something to the child, who whispers something timidly in answer. He lifts his head a moment later, shifting the kid in his lap so Ed can see hazy brown eyes and gaunt cheeks stained with tears. "Fullmetal, meet Ling," he says, as if it's totally normal for you to come in after a mission and find your commanding officer rocking a kid who looks no older than ten. "Ling, meet Fullmetal."

Ed blinks, ready with another question— _who the fuck is that, you answered NOTHING as usual, Mustang, can you just tell me why there’s a small child on your lap—_ but then he _sees_ the kid. Not just the mess of dark hair (even longer than his, which is an accomplishment in and of itself—doesn’t look like this brat’s been maintaining it at all, though) or the way his fingers curl white-knuckled into the plush throw-blanket that’s been on that couch since he first tried to go on a mission with a stomach bug and instead spent the day lying on that couch and vomiting his guts up, but the…the _fear._ The way his eyes aren’t focusing on anything or reacting much to the change in light from the open office door, the pale scars standing out on skinny bronze arms, the fact that his collarbone is jutting out against his neck and his eyes—

The area over and around his eyes is marked with the static, shifting, not-quite-right marks of an unclean transmutation, the familiar grid from hastily made weapons that Ed hurls into battle tattooed—no, _scarred_ over this kid’s face.

The kid is hurt, he realizes distantly, a strange roaring filling his ears. The kid his superior officer is holding and treating so gently, so—so weirdly _parentally_ is hurt, and someone used alchemy to do it. _Reconstruction, deconstruction, equivalent exchange—_ But someone always gets hurt, don’t they? He hurt Al and himself, Teacher hurt herself, the bastard…he doesn’t know Roy’s story, not really, not yet, but he knows he did something bad with alchemy. Irreparably bad. And—and _Nina—_

Alchemy is supposed to improve people’s lives. Make things easier—make them better. But someone always ends up in the line of fire. Someone always gets _hurt_ by it, whether it’s someone he cares about or a kid he’s never met before. He doesn’t know whether the transmutation was deliberate or not, but if the marks are there…someone probably tried to hurt that kid. And succeeded.

_I’m sorry,_ he wants to say. _I won’t hurt you,_ he starts to promise. _It’s nice to meet you—who are you—are you okay?_

Instead, all that comes out of his mouth is, “Shit, you’re tiny.”

The kid’s lower lip wobbles at that, and he shrinks back against the colonel, as though the bastard is gonna…protect him or something. Ed ignores the little flare of jealousy in his chest at that (it’s not like _he_ needs to be protected, he’s a _State Alchemist—_ the only one without a track record of war crimes or human experimentation under his belt, though the latter is really only because Mustang lied for him), beats it down even harder as Mustang gently tugs him back against his chest and rubs his shoulder soothingly. “Don’t be mean, Fullmetal.”

“I’m _not!”_ Sure, maybe it wasn’t the best thing to say right off the bat, but it’s not like he _wants_ to scare him! He just…didn’t think before speaking. It’s not it’s a mean thing to say, either, because he _is_ tiny, and it doesn’t seem like that’s what he’s upset about, anyways. If it _is,_ then…well, he guesses “mean” is a fair assessment. But not an intentional one! “It just— _ugh,”_ he grumbles, scowling at his boots before glancing up at the kid a moment later.

He’s…Ed doesn’t know if he can say “watching him”, but he’s got his head tilted toward him, attention seemingly fixed. Hesitantly, he lifts a hand and waves—nearly kicks himself a moment later, _he can’t see you, dumbass—_ before taking a step toward him after a moment. “Uh…hi. I’m sorry,” he adds, because he’s probably the reason the kid started crying when he kicked open the door. Loud sounds are scary for little kids, right? Or some kids, anyway. “I didn’t mean to scare you with the door. The colonel doesn’t like it either, but that’s ‘cause he’s _dumb_ , not ‘cause he’s afraid.”

“Fullmetal,” Mustang huffs, and Ed grimaces (now he’s in trouble, and it was a shitty apology anyway), before they both blink as a tiny noise comes from the kid’s throat. Like…like a laugh, the kind that Al makes when Ed does something silly. It’s small and very, very quiet, but it’s _there,_ and Ed shoots Mustang a triumphant grin. _Ha! Take that, bastard, I made him laugh!_ His grin fades a little when the kid immediately claps his hands over his mouth, eyes going wide with fear, and he glances at Mustang worriedly—not because he _wants_ to listen to him or anything, he just…seems to know how to handle the kid better, and he’s already his favorite.

Mustang gently rubs the kid’s shoulder, stroking his hair back slowly; Ling tips his head back into the touch with a whimper, his whole body shuddering with fear. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, and his voice is soft and gentle and soothing in a way Ed’s never heard it before. “You’re safe, kiddo. You’re allowed to make noise if you want to. No one’s going to hurt you for it.”

Horror shocks through Ed’s chest— _that’s why he’s scared of laughing?—_ followed by a sharp, bitter, _Of course he is, you didn’t, people don’t just get scared of normal human reactions for no reason._ “I laugh at people all the time,” he offers, watching Ling turn his head in the direction of his voice. “Including Colonel Ba—Mustang over there.” He probably shouldn’t curse in front of the kid, right? He already _has,_ but he should try and be a good example or whatever. Al would like that—

Oh, shit, _Al._ He’s going to want to meet Ling, or at least know what’s going on. Ed doesn’t know whether he can even handle having many more people around him, though; Ling looks panicked enough at just the two of them in the room, looked on the verge of tears before Hawkeye slipped out to fill the rest of the team in on who, exactly, was crying and what had happened. Not that Ed really knows, but Mustang had to acquire the kid from _somewhere._ And said kid looks injured, or at least sick or something—like, should-probably-see-a-doctor-sick. Not that Ed is a good example of that, as he doesn’t go to the doctor _ever_ if he can’t help it (unless it’s Winry or Granny, and even then he’d rather not bother them). Doesn’t mean the kid should follow his example, though.

“Are you taking him to a doctor or something?” he asks just as the door opens again; Ling flinches hard at the click of the lock and the turn of the handle, and Ed whirls around, some instinct compelling him to _defenddefenddefend._ Hawkeye glances down at him, and it _clicks_ after a moment, how he’s automatically put himself between the intruder and the kid in his superior’s lap, but he pushes the implications away with a huff and crosses his arms. “He needs one. Just sayin’.”

“I’ve made an appointment with a local pediatrician,” she says, her voice measured and even as she faces Mustang. She shoots him another glance a moment later, and he doesn’t realize he’s relaxed until the lack of tension in his jaw registers. “Someone who has experience in unusual cases. In discretion. It’s for tomorrow morning.” She kneels down in front of Ling, and Ed’s heart twists with an emotion he absolutely refuses to recognize as she brushes his hair out of his face. Ling tilts his head up into the touch, chasing it with a desperation Ed feels in his damn _bones._

No one’s done that for…for _him_ since Mom died. Not even Teacher. She’d clip them out of his face, or gently trim them when they were getting too messy, but there’s something about that—that one little movement that reminds him painfully of his mother, that makes his chest tighten with pain as he stares at Ling. _You don’t need it anymore,_ he tells himself fiercely. _You’re stronger than that, better than that—Ling does, because something hurt him and he’s littler than you._

He ended up hurting Al, hurting himself, hurting his mom just because he wanted to see her smile again. Made Winry cry and threw himself and his brother into danger over and over because of that selfish desire, that utter inability to accept death when it had come. That childish want put them in this position. Put Al in an unfeeling husk of metal, with nowhere to escape to, not even sleep or silence. He doesn’t deserve a mother’s affection now—doesn’t deserve that kindness, that _love._ He forfeited it when he tried to bring her back.

Doesn’t mean that his chest doesn’t hurt when he sees Hawkeye being so… _gentle_ with Ling. She’s never harsh with him, always friendly, but she’s professional first and foremost (at least from what he’s seen, he hasn’t been here very long). But that _thing_ still twists and whines and claws at his ribs when he sees Ling (a kid he’s known for all of ten, twenty minutes) knot scarred fingers into her shirt and get lifted up into her arms. It’s not like he wants to be carried or anything. It’s just…he wishes the option was _there_ for him.

It’s fine, though. He doesn’t _need_ it. Besides, this kid…this kid needs a friend, not someone who’s gonna be mean or jealous or laugh at him. And Ed can be a good friend. He hasn’t been—not to Winry, who he keeps leaving and worrying, or to Al, who he thinks wouldn’t give him the time of day if they weren’t related. He can be a good friend to Ling, though. Ed’s the closest to his age—probably—out of anyone in this room, and even if the kid’s a total scaredy-cat (for good reason), he can be nice. He can play games with him and stuff, like he used to with Al and Winry when they were all small like him.

Yeah. He’s going to be Ling’s friend, and he’s gonna be a good one. “Where’s he gonna stay?” he asks, inching a bit closer. Ling tilts his head toward him, sightless eyes distant and a little confused. “Since you’re probably trying to hide him and all.” They did mention discretion, after all, and Ed knows that the higher-ups won’t like that a kid just _showed up_ here, or that Mustang is taking him in. Military dorms are probably out of the question, and he doesn’t think the kid will take to being sent off to Risembool well. Winry would probably dote on him for sure, she’s good with little kids, but it’s like Ling’s imprinted on Mustang or whatever. You don’t separate a duckling from its mother, and while Ling isn’t a duckling, the same principle probably applies. “Is he staying with one of you, or…like, what’s the situation?”

“I have a guest room,” Mustang says after a moment. Ling whips his head around toward him, eyes wide, and that thing scratching at Ed’s ribs subsides into shock and a bit of _rage_ when he sees genuine surprise written all over that small face. Mustang’s eyes flash, the black suddenly bright and burning with barely-suppressed anger—but its gone again as soon as he blinks. “Is that alright with you, sweetheart?”

_Sweetheart._ Ed reels at the nickname even though it isn’t directed at him, at the idea of it coming out of _Colonel Bastard’s mouth,_ at the unimaginable tenderness the word is said with. It’s impossible to reconcile with the man he knows ( _but do you even know him? You’ve been here for all of six months and you’ve been on missions for three weeks out of every month. Do you know him at all?)_ but it doesn’t sound _wrong,_ not at all. Maybe it’s the rightness of it, the way Mustang says it so naturally that leaves him stunned and silent.

Mustang isn’t supposed to be gentle. It ruins everything Ed’s taught himself—that he doesn’t care, that he’s using them, that nothing matters to him except for his goal and Lieutenant Hawkeye. He’s not supposed to be, and it’s entirely unfair that he _is,_ because now Ed can’t make himself angry at him for it.

_Unfair,_ some part of him that remains twelve despite everything, despite the taboo and despite his limbs of steel, despite the suffering he’s pushed onto Al—some part of him that remains a _child_ whispers. _I want that. Unfair._

He pushes it away—he _doesn’t_ want it, it’s the stupid words of a child who doesn’t care about the people they’ve hurt, who doesn’t care about the fact that he blew his chance at having that sort of kindness given to him again. Someone who wants without deserving it.

He’s always been selfish like that, but he can’t be right now. Not in the face of all _this._

“Y-yes, please.” Ed jolts at the quiet voice; he’s never heard it before, soft and small and a little uncertain, hoarse and sick. Ling ducks his head back into Hawkeye’s shoulder a moment later, as if he hadn’t made a sound, as if he’s trying to erase his words from the air. That alone makes Ed want to _scream,_ because he’s never been afraid of speaking like that, _what did they do to him to make him afraid like that—_ before that awful, jealous thing in his chest hisses again as Riza gently rubs his back, soothing and sweet.

He’s starting to hate himself for it a little bit—a lot. He glances away as Mustang gets to his feet with a soft, “Of course, kiddo,” and drapes his jacket a little more securely over Ling’s shoulders, flipping up the collar and wrapping him up in it. They head for the door, and Ed catches Ling’s eyes—well, his face, mostly—over Hawkeye’s shoulder as he’s carried out. Sees shock, and contentment, and that quiet desperation as he holds on tight to the lieutenant.

He looks…warm. And safe. And here Ed is, in his own damn jacket, without any of these fears that Ling is clinging to in abject terror, healthy and—well, not whole, but not so scarred and frightened that he holds tight to the first person to show him kindness, and he’s _jealous._

Yeah. Ed hates himself for this—

“Ed?”

He glances up, meeting Mustang’s dark eyes, before stiffening. “What the hell do you—”

“Are you coming or not?”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, snatching up his suitcase with a huff and stomping a little less than usual as he heads for the door. Something warm spreads over that hissing, growling monster, softening it. “Yeah, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! leave a comment and/or a kudos if you did, and i'll see you next time <3 thank you all so much for reading!


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